Deep Deceit

By Peter Fergus

Andy Bonner, an ex-Special Forces soldier, is struggling in the civilian world after a dangerous life on the edge. Consequently, he loses his boring office job with a bang after a very steamy encounter with his superior. Along with a younger colleague and friend, Paul Brown, he embarks on a new venture, salvaging cargoes from shipwrecks and diving for lobsters off a popular east coast resort.
Two young unattached men, they relish in the abundance of female holiday makers. But the witty camaraderie and carefree life they are enjoying abruptly ends when they find a downed plane and discover evidence of a sinister plot implicating government, cabinet ministers and the PM himself. Brown is picked up and tortured in an attempt to repossess the damming documents. Bonner escapes to London in a last-ditch attempt to expose the plot and save his friend. On the run from the security services he once worked alongside, he has to use every trick in the book and more to survive. On a near impossible quest, Bonner learns that deep deceit is all around him in the form of venal civil servants and greedy corrupt politicians. However, when all seems hopelessly lost, help comes from a most unexpected source… and heads roll.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Austin Macauley Publishers
• Release date: Feb 28, 2022
• ISBN: 9781528905831

Peter Fergus

Peter Fergus is a charter boat operator living and working in Plymouth. He served in the parachute regiment before becoming a professional diver, worked in marine salvage and the commercial diving industry for more than forty years as well as an active sport diver. He now conducts diving charters and general workboat duties including film and media work. He also subcontracts to companies as a Diving Supervisor, overseeing commercial diving operations as far afield as Uganda.

Book preview

About the Author

Peter Fergus is a charter boat operator living and working in Plymouth. He served in the parachute regiment before becoming a professional diver, worked in marine salvage and the commercial diving industry for more than forty years as well as an active sport diver. He now conducts diving charters and general workboat duties including film and media work. He also subcontracts to companies as a Diving Supervisor, overseeing commercial diving operations as far afield as Uganda.

Dedication

To all my friends along the way.

Copyright Information ©

Peter Fergus 2022

The right of Peter Fergus to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by the author in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.

Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781788781596 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781528905831 (ePub e-book)

www.austinmacauley.com

First Published 2022

Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd®

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Chapter One

Remote Mountain Region, North West of Agra, Northern Iraq

2 May 2004

The two rows of big heavy doors grated on dry hinges as each one fell with air-gushing thuds, causing fingers of sand and dust to shoot high into the dry desert air. Below in the large dark silo, scabs of decaying steel dropped from the rusting doors like thawing ice onto a row of forty-five-gallon drums that were lined up like soldiers. Each drum bore a roughly applied stencil mark. A sinister gaping skull with customary crossbones. The cold steel containers were guarding a number of green sleeping monsters, which rested on wheeled launchers. Monsters that impersonally kill and destroy; with one of the shiny black drums in each of their bellies, when released, these scud missiles would cause catastrophic epidemics and death wherever they crashed. Their devastation with the help of the wind would spread hundreds of miles and in all directions.

Above, busy shovels rang in unison as a group of grimy youths covered the rust-stained doors with coarse sandy earth; cast rocks collided with dull thuds releasing dust that hung in the air like wood smoke as the area was returned to desert. They continued with industrial vigour, comparable with a scene from an Egyptian dig.

Twenty minutes later, the silo doors that followed the forty-five-degree contour of the slope had a covering that blended perfectly with the desolate rocky slope.

Charles Alan sat in bored silence. On his knee rested a brown leather attaché case. He was dressed in a beige overcoat that had velvet patches on its lapels, not the attire for the bleak desert. He looked like a city banker. His bored silence was punctuated with huffs, along with regular attacks with a sodden handkerchief on the beads of sweat that constantly tickled his face. He was too long in the tooth for this sort of operation, and he knew it.

John Pope watched over the men; he looked like an American marine. He had a notably square jaw and a close-shaved head, which bore several raised linear scars. He was wearing dark blue chinos that rippled in the dry wind and a black bomber jacket, which was noticeably stretched over his broad muscled shoulders. Pope snapped his fingers and nodded direction towards the pickup and the Iraqi peasants scurried into the covered Toyota. He wiped the dust from the display of the hand-held GPS and recorded their position. He stuffed it into his inside pocket and then waved at the driver of the three-ton army truck. A quick glance around, known as an idiot check, then the elite forces soldier climbed into the vehicle.

Alan nodded and the diesel engine knocked into life. The once-white Toyota pickup bumped along the dusty track, followed faithfully by the truck. They weaved through the remote windswept hills for almost an hour, then slowed as they approached a dry riverbed. Through the rear window, Pope could see the young Iraqis dragging heavily on their incentive bonus, English cigarettes. They drew deeply at them, causing red glows to light up each individual’s face. Their enthused banter even drowned out the noisy tones from the pickup’s damaged exhaust pipe.

Pope’s eyes turned to his smartly dressed passenger; an indifferent barely discernible nod was all he received.

He stopped the vehicle and quickly exited, then briskly strode to the rear causing a noticeable silence from the passengers in the back. He then walked to the edge of the dry riverbank. He turned and spoke loudly in Iraqi, telling to relieve themselves as the journey was going to last several more hours.

The youthful men looked at each other approvingly and then eagerly piled out along with a dozen or so empty plastic drink bottles. They shuffled into a line; still puffing out smoke, they began laughing and joking, as the steam from their urine rose like a wall of morning mist in the cold night air. The truck driver joined them and found a space at the end of the line.

The nearest youth in the row looked at Pope and shot him an innocent grin, causing his white teeth to flash in the dim light. Pope’s sober face remained cold and resolute as he raised a hefty black pistol in reply. It was not a smile or a friendly nod he returned, it was a long and deadly yellow flash. The heavy nine-millimetre bullet tore into the young man’s third rib, then it went spinning through his right lung before exploding into his left lung, causing massive haemorrhaging. His eyes stared in disbelief and his cigarette fell from his gaping mouth before he succumbed to a painful and cruel death.

Alan didn’t even flinch or turn to look; he just nonchalantly slapped his Armani driving gloves into his palm as if he was frustratingly waiting on a taxi stand. He sat detached as the noisy rapid burst from the Uzi sub machine pistol thudded into the other five men at stomach height. The bullets hit like invisible mule kicks, leaving each one gasping in bubbles of blood. He coldly emptied the twenty-five rounds from the box magazine and one by one, each break-dancing body crumpled into a lifeless heap.

Alan quickly slipped out from the cab and brushed his jacket with his hands. Pope, with effortless ease, dragged the frail undernourished youth killed by the Browning 9mm and placed him in the driver’s seat. The youth’s genuine beaming smile had now been replaced by a hollow gape. Pope then forced the Uzi machine pistol into its grubby limp hand. He stood back and checked his work, and then with fatherly care, he picked a rust flake from the dead man’s tight lock of black hair. The Browning 9mm he placed in the hand of the nearest body, which still held a smoking cigarette; the hand felt warm as he closed the dirty nail-bitten fingers around the patterned non-slip grip of the heavy pistol. He then moved over to the lorry driver. Kneeling beside the sad shell of the young soldier who was probably in his early twenties, he laid him on his back then emptied his pockets; he then pulled his ID tag from his neck with a hard snatch. The young man’s head lifted slightly and then dropped back into the sand, then rolled to the side. His once smiling blue eyes were now empty shells gazing across an equally empty desert. The only movement was his blond sun-bleached hair as it was blown into different styles by the icy cold wind.

Pope rose upright and looked down at the soldier who was dressed in desert fatigues. He paused for a second, focussing on the small Union Jack attached to his left shoulder. Taking an uneven breath, he slowly shook his head and said, almost in a whisper, Sorry mate.

He returned to the pickup, restarted the engine, then pulled a knife from his pocket and stabbed the front tyre and then the spare. He did the same to the truck. As the hiss of escaping air subsided, he took his thin black leather gloves off, looked at his Rolex submariner and scanned the scene. It now looked like the result of a feudal gang dispute. He noted the position on the hand-held GPS, took a bearing and then looked at Alan who was stood with his back to the victims. Without a word, they started walking. Twenty minutes later, the two men descended a ridge and continued towards a number of dim green lights; the lights became brighter as the door of the waiting helicopter opened.

Chapter Two

Northampton

19 May 2004

The modern open-plan office had an older office within it. From the outside, it looked as lacklustre as its surroundings, but inside oak panels made up the sides and the front had mirrored windows that you could only see out of. The cool conditioned air within the office retained an aged scent of leather and wealth.

The managing director had saved tradition by bringing his old office with him piece by piece. A big shiny boardroom table dominated one side of the large room and had a gallery of past directors sternly watching over it. At the end of the table, an elegant grandfather clock stood on guard. Its ticking was deep and methodical and gave the room a living heartbeat. At the opposite end of the shiny walnut expanse was a big leather chair from which he could spy his subordinates conducting their mundane tasks. His domain could have been the set in a period play; it exuded conceit and affluence.

Outside the serene realm, unremitting rattling keyboards filled the huge open-plan office; phones rang constantly in different tones. People rushed around with iron faces, carrying reams of paper. The smell of body odour mixed with cheap perfume hung in the warm air that had passed through many lungs, and was making everyone yawn.

Among the islands of desks, two motionless figures appeared to be out of place.

Where do you fancy searching this summer?

How about that cluster of wrecks that are about forty miles out from Skegness; you know, the group mostly marked as PA.

Hell, that would cost a shitload in fuel, at least sixty quid a day, and we aren’t guaranteed to find anything after a round trip of at least eighty miles.

PA…Position approximate means there’s something out there, mate, and I bet no one has taken the time or bothered to take a look. Andy’s voice was deep compared with Paul’s and his reply left Paul wearing an optimistic smile.

The incessant office noise and occasional hand-muffled cough echoed in his mind, causing Andy to grit his teeth and push away from the desk.

God, I’m sick to death of this fucking job, it’s giving me anxiety attacks. This monitor is trying to suck out my brain through my eyes and this cheap plastic seat is having a go through my arse; even my nuts feel numb. What the hell am I doing here trapped in this gentle metropolitan world. I’m losing my sense of adventure, there’s no hunt or danger any more, I’m just watching my past life on the TV these days. In-between hours of crap condescending adverts.

Andy’s broad and strong athletic frame looked out of place in the dark grey Matalan suit. Even his fingers were too big for the keyboard and constantly pressed several keys at a time, making every task take twice as long as it should have.

Paul, sensing his frustration, smiled as he drew breath.

Fancy a pint later, mate, or should I call you…numb nuts?

Andy nodded. Sure, anything’s better than wallowing in bedsit land.

Correction, mate. Paul waved his finger. They’re called studio apartments now.

Yeah, that’s about right, but not mine; it’s a dump. The second-hand car dealers have moved into real estate and renamed themselves yuppies.

Why don’t you get a house or somewhere better than that dingy flat?

I haven’t got rich folks like you have; all my money went into my share of the boat. Anyway, I don’t want stitching up with a mortgage.

It’s an investment.

Oh yeah, it’s an investment for the bastards lending you the money at exorbitant rates; all of them suck.

You could still lodge at my place, you know.

H’m, I can just imagine the gossip, two guys living together. Shirt lifters. Pillow biters. I wouldn’t dare put out the washing. And I bet it would be me who would be accused of being the butch one. The giver… You’d be my little pillow-biting bitch.

On second thoughts, you’re right; you better stay where you are for now. Paul turned to his monitor and shivered notably and then dropped his head. Look out, Medusa’s heading our way.

The attractive, well-dressed, middle-aged woman swayed towards them, holding a pile of papers over her arm like a waiter. Office manageress, Ms Jill Harper, placed the papers carefully on Andy’s desk, paused…flared her hair onto her shoulders, then leant down close to him.

I’m afraid we have more field entries…Andrew. She smiled then removed her glasses with finely manicured fingers that bore no rings. She then slowly turned to his monitor, widened her eyes then turned back to him. How is the project progressing?

He cleared his throat as the puffs of her warm breath fell on his face. Then the sweet aroma of expensive perfume warmly flooded around him. Her presence instantly aroused him, prompting him to instinctively focus his deep blue eyes on her. Well…if you keep adding and changing the data at this rate, we’ll be here indefinitely. He ended the short confrontation with an indifferent shrug of defiance.

This contract is six weeks overdue, Mr Bonner. She stood upright, flashing her lucid green eyes at him like spears. This team will have to do better, a lot better.

Christ! What team, you’re having a laugh, there’s only two of us, girl. As I just said, how can you expect us to finish it when you keep moving the goalpost by adding more stuff? Each change affects the whole structure.

Paul stared blankly at his monitor with his head cocked, sneakily listening to his mate digging a deep hole.

You will simply have to put more hours in. Mr Brown hasn’t fallen behind, he meets all his targets. She stared directly into his piercing blue eyes, long and assertively, and then gritted her perfect teeth. Don’t you ever…ever address me as ‘girl’ again. She widened her eyes fully as if adding a further and more aggressive stab at him.

The corner of his mouth betrayed a restrained commanding smile.

You know I’m not willing to work weekends…for anyone.

You seem to forget that you are on the staff payroll; it’s high time you started giving more priority and attention to your job. Younger and far brighter trainee programmers are applying to join this renowned firm every day. People with all the appropriate training and experience in computing, not like you, Andrew.

This isn’t programming, the whole thing’s a pile of shit!

How dare you say that? You have only been with the firm five minutes. You…You would be a lollypop man, or sweeping the streets if Mr Goldberg hadn’t given you this opportunity. She shot a glance towards his office then back to him. You would be out on the streets right now if he knew of this disrespectful outburst.

Fucking lollypop man! I don’t need this crap.

Are you going to tell him? He sprang up and stared down at her. Or shall I take these additions, he snatched up the pile of papers and rolled them into a thick tube, and stick them right up Mr Golden balls’ greedy well-shod arse!

Paul made a snort through his nose as he restrained his laughter.

You seem to have a serious problem working under me, Mr Bonner. Perhaps I can remedy that for you. She turned and marched away, swinging her arms with her fists clenched into tight knots.

Working under her, now there’s a thought. He turned to Paul and holding his nose, mimicked, Mr Brown hasn’t fallen behind, he meets all his targets and regularly kisses my tight shapely arse. Paul froze, wide-eyed like a rabbit in a torch beam.

What on earth do you think you are doing…get back to your workstation immediately. Goldberg was stood behind Andy; his loud outburst instantly silenced the entire office. I will not tolerate slackers in my company. Now get back to your assigned task and try and convince me that my investment in you was not a futile one. And put your company tie back on this instance.

Andy drew a pile of coins from the pocket of his ill-fitting suit.

A dry cider and a lager, make it pints please, mate. At six feet, he was four inches taller than Paul and several years older.

I can’t take another bollocking from that supercilious prat, who the hell does he think he is, company tie, my arse, and Medusa’s getting just as bad.

She’s got the hots for you, mate, a bit of a love-hate thing, but she can’t get at your pet rabbit. Paul grinned at him as he settled back into his seat.

She’s got a bloody strange way of showing it. What bloody pet rabbit?

"She’s got to be a bunny boiler, like in that film, Fatal Attraction. Her job fills her head and makes her feel superior. It’s probably the only buzz she gets. She’s got attitude towards men like loads of older single women who can’t find Mr Right. I reckon she’ll shag you then sack you, just like one of those Black Widow spiders."

That’s apt, but she attacks with her big curvy mouth.

You have to mate with her before she devours you, don’t forget.

Yeah, I might just test her out for the hell of it. You know, she’s got to be about forty. I reckon a virile twenty-nine-year-old stud would be quite a conquest for her; yeah, then she could gladly sack me. I’d even get myself a pet rabbit just in case.

Well, you won’t be the first, she has a reputation for shagging staff, it’s a power thing, a guy in the mailing office nearly had his brains shagged out by her, that was before she sacked him. He reckoned she’s a nymphomaniac and can’t be satisfied. Paul grinned openly.

Paul pushed his way through the bobbing stream of dull-faced commuters towards Andy’s wavy blond hair and muscular broad shoulders.

Morning, mate.

I’ve got Medusa a gift.

You what, I thought you hated her. What is it, a pink Viagra?

I don’t need any of that shit, just visual aids.

What?

A magazine with pricks in.

Now you’ve got me worried. Paul turned sideways and continued to walk with his back to the wall.

Andy shook his head. What’s with her reputation then? You seem to be well clued up on her, is there a sinister side to you behind that baby face?

I reckon she has you in her sights.

I think I will give your hypothesis a go.

Paul simply raised his eyebrows. Big word for this time in the morning.

It was midday, Andy grinned inwardly as he walked towards the coffee machine. He pressed for a black coffee without sugar and walked towards Ms Harper’s office, stirring the coffee, and paused, turned and looked across at Paul who was repeatedly urging him on with sideways nods. People were starting to notice him outside her small internal office.

He lent against the doorframe and tapped the half-open door, then popped his head around. Look, I’m really sorry about yesterday. I was bang out of order. He moved in front of her small orderly desk and passed her the coffee. Can we start again please and be…friends?

She looked over her glasses while spinning from side to side in her plush leather chair.

Apology accepted, but I’m not sure about the friend part, she replied with an air of superiority. Andrew, she fixed her gaze on him, you must not let your brutish temper take control…this is not the testosterone-fuelled world you’re accustomed to. I will not permit another outburst like that again. She looked him up and down.

What would your pretty little head know of my world…girl?

Please put your tie back on, Andrew, you know very well it is company policy.

Yeah, OK. I’m sorry. He walked back, grinning, and threw his crunched-up tie on his desk.

Paul glanced at the corner of his monitor for the time. "It’s nearly two pm; look, she’s going downstairs, and she’s binned her empty cup; quick, go and put that magazine on her desk.

Andy quickly dashed off and planted the magazine.

Now we just wait and watch for changes in her body language.

He rubbed his hands together. I feel like that human jungle guy, you know, Desmond Lynham.

Desmond Morris, Paul corrected him.

Andy screwed his face up at him. He was the guy who studied monkeys.

Paul shook his head. Hence the human jungle, as in primates. What did you do in the navy besides abusing the natives?

Andy tapped the side of his nose.

Ms Harper returned to her desk minutes later; her face had now gained a distinctive red flush. Picking up the magazine, she repeatedly scanned the open plan office with a frown and pursed lips. She kept hiding the magazine among a pile of loose papers each time someone passed a little too close.

Andy monitored her from the corner of his eye; she kept looking up and around in a guilty sort of way before returning to the magazine, each time she read it a little longer, she was becoming engrossed in it.

An hour later, she appeared to be restless and fidgety and repeatedly wriggled on her seat.

That magazine has got her going all right, it must be preying on her nympho tendencies, Andy whispered. She’s like a cat on a hot plate.

Tin roof?

Andy frowned. Is playing Trivial Pursuit all you’ve ever done?

Paul ignored him. Great. He sneaked a look. She must be buzzing; she can’t keep still for a second, what’s in that article anyway?

Comments on the effect of size and shape, a thousand women were surveyed, some tell in detail of their experiences with… He made eye contact. …real men.

Yeah, you said earlier; so, what was the result?

Andy grinned. Eight inches and thick… So, you’re well out of the running, pal.

They all say it’s not the size, but how you use it.

Andy smiled and wiggled his little finger at him. The underdeveloped dudes always quote that in defence.

It’s a load of bollocks, Paul quipped.

Precisely. Andy grinned.

Almost one hour later, Ms Harper was behaving in a flustered manner, pulling her knees together and repeatedly wiping her hands over her thighs.

As Paul and Andy walked towards the exit door, she appeared.

Andrew, will you come into my office please; there are a few things that I need to discuss with you.

He gave Paul a surprised look, raised his eyebrows then turned to her. Err…yes, certainly.

Give us a call later. Paul sneaked a hidden wink.

Andy leaned against the wall, listening to the footsteps and voices fading into the distance as all the staff escaped.

She closed the main doors and bolted them and then returned to her office. Come in please, Andrew.

He entered and received another hit of her rich perfume.

Would you like a drink; after all, it is past working hours.

Yeah, sure thanks, he replied confidently.

I know we have had our differences over the last few months. She was restless and constantly spinning the chair using the sharp point of her shiny black stilettos. He remained silent as she rose slowly, causing the leather chair to squeak. Is whisky all right?

Yes, thank you.

She moved with style towards a small cabinet and produced a bottle of ten-year-old Talisker.

Talisker, my favourite. He studied her curves as she clumsily poured the whisky, forcing the crystal glasses to ring loudly in protest.

She focussed on him intently as she passed the glass with a shaking hand.

Are you alright? He paused, lifting his deep blue eyes… Jill.

Yes, I’m fine, fine. She swallowed her drink with a large gulp followed by a gasp, then returned to the chair and shot him a brief smile, moved some papers from the side of the desk then beckoned him to sit on the edge, about a metre from her.

I won’t beat about the bush, Andrew; did you place this magazine on my desk? She looked down onto the desk then back up at him. She’d trapped some hair in her mouth and clumsily pulled it away, she was shaking noticeably. Annoyed at her display of nerves, she suddenly pressed her finger hard onto the magazine. Look, it’s got your address penned on the top here.

That’s not my address; it’s…I don’t know.

Well, I checked the address and it belongs to a gentleman’s hairdresser’s close to where you live.

So, what…that’s probably just a coincidence.

I phoned the shop and they told me that they know you quite well, Andrew, and that you are always stealing their magazines; apparently, it has become a bit of a joke amongst the stylists.

Homer Simpson did a loud ‘doh’ in his head and he looked away to hide his embarrassment.

Why, Andrew?

He studied her. She was in good shape; her natural wavy blonde hair was tasteful and complemented her sea-green eyes, her neck was pleasing to the eye. She pouted her lustrous red lips at him, demanding a reply.

I…it was a bet.

So, I’ve become a subject of immature male wagers, have I?

No, it wasn’t intended to offend you.

So, you didn’t consider that these might offend me? She placed the open magazine next to him. Men’s penises, Andrew, why?

He could feel himself blushing up even more and he was becoming hot and flustered. Look, I just said I’m sorry. He slowly took a sip, hiding behind the glass.

Her tone changed. Your CV should have warned me that someone with a history like yours would be disruptive and gung ho…you’re not on a navy ship or being shot out of a submarine to storm a North Sea oil rig…this is a serious and professional workplace…

Serious…my arse.

Substituting verbal retaliation with an angry stare, he continued slowly sipping his drink.

How big is your cock, Andy? He jerked, spat the whisky back into the glass and gave a rough cough.

Come on, Andrew! You think it is fair game to embarrass me. She leered at him. You’re embarrassed I see, you have beads of sweat on your forehead. She nodded in conquest.

He cast a challenging frown. About seven, eight, inches, I reckon.

She took a big swig from her glass and gasped, "Bigger than all of these in your seedy rag then, and apparently, the perfect size. I find that hard to believe, no pun intended."

He shrugged his shoulders.

Circumcised?

He looked at her and shook his head. It all depends on the mood, but I can make it look that way.

She sprang up. Fancy yourself, don’t you, you think you’re ‘the man’, the hard…cool stud, the guy who gets all the laughs at other people’s expense. Well stud, show me what you’ve got packed in there.

With him sat on the desk, they were the same height. Her face was close to his, her eyes wide and demanding; he could feel her hot whisky breath falling on his face.

You can’t be serious?

Was that a poor interpretation of John McEnroe or are you getting a bit…panicky. Try me! she snapped. If you doubt I’m serious.

He froze, taken aback, not quite knowing what to do. She had him where she wanted him, on the run. He got off the desk and walked towards the door.

Come on, stud; I said show me what you’re made of.

He stopped and turned. I think we’re even now…don’t you? He reached for the door.

The call to the hairdresser’s, it was a bluff.

He stopped and turned. She looked him in the eyes and cocked her head. Still, never mind, you’d better run along…coward. She closed her eyes briefly and turned her head away with overstated disgust.

Shit.

He returned and sat back on the desk. She turned towards him; her eyes opened slowly and held his stare. A small wry smile spread across her face. She licked her lips unconsciously as if preparing her mouth for a full tasty meal. She gazed from his face down his body, pausing at his waist before resting her eyes at his groin.

Come on then, Andy, I’m waiting. She locked her eyes on his. The challenge was on.

Andy slid off the desk and fumbled with his belt, followed by his zip, his eyes never leaving hers. He dropped his trousers, revealing tight-fitting black boxers that stretched around his toned thighs. The word ‘Playboy’ was embossed on the elastic waistband.

Playboy, she sniggered into her hand. "Well, at least the boy part is correct."

He drew an angry breath and gave a mean stare, but she ignored him and using her finger, gestured towards his boxers. Those also.

You don’t really— Before he could complete his sentence, she interrupted.

Of course, I do. If you are going to back out now…there’s the door.

She